Of course we thought that this secretary was a fraud, an amateur in appreciating art.
My mother was a fraud too, and my father, although they didn’t thought so. When they saw my work sometimes, when they were still alive, they immediately and badly needed a drink, let’s say alcohol. That was ok, I mean the first part, they loved me nevertheless, in their own special way. As long as I took a drink too.
The mosquito didn’t come back, probably flew to some Iberic Island for more fun.
My grandfather was a carpenter, working in the harbour of Rotterdam, smoking since his seventh year, making seven children with his wife. All the children barely finished grammar school. That’s all right, they knew everything, they knew how to live and tell their children how to behave, which is a difficult thing.
When my grandfather turned seventy, I made him a painting of a landscape. It was a naïve painting, the whole family went quiet. Finally, my grandfather said: well, Picasso started misunderstood. The whole family, sitting in a circle, didn’t said word, as if the pastor walked by. They poured themselves more of their homebrewed gin.
My nephew was a fraud, because he came too close when I was little, and because he sold stolen bottles of expensive perfume. So he went to prison (I wished I had visited him, I have an obsession with prisons, the rooms are so tiny and simple furnished. and you can only do just a few things, which I like, and you do not need to go anywhere, which for a while might be nice).
I could have told him that he was such a lucky guy.
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